


tiny love

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 21:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: in which hawke comes to kirkwall for a very special conversation he ultimately tries to avoid, meanwhile varric tries not to suffer the mortifying ordeal of being known





	tiny love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asymptotical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asymptotical/gifts).

“...and what of new tariffs against mead? Viscount? Shall I come back when you’re more focused?” 

Varric sighs and snaps his attention back to Bran. The cursed bastard scowls at him and repeatedly taps his quill against the parchment. 

“I don’t know, Seneschal. What _ of _them? The rates are the lowest they’ve been in a decade, is someone actually stupid enough to complain?”

Bran continues jabbing his poor parchment. There must be a hole in the table by now. “Harlan sent his third missive this week. He's inquiring if he should expect it to last, as the option of extension is only a few weeks away—”

“Ha! I wonder when ‘a few weeks’ started to mean ‘six,’” Varric says. He grasps for straws. “You know, maybe you’re right and we should just put a pin in the rest of these until tomorrow’s meeting. It’s going to be a busy week.”

“Very well, if you think that will help,” Bran says, voice dropping an extra ten degrees chillier. “First, however, we need to choose a masonry vendor for the East Wing renovations.”

Varric groans and corrects his posture, trying to stretch out that one spot over his left shoulder blade that goes numb whenever he slouches. It's rude of him, sure, but Bran’s now moving onto his fourth “last order of business” since the meeting should have ended a hour ago, and to be honest, Varric is close to losing his fucking mind.

A polite knock on the door interrupts them.

“Oh thank the Maker, come in,” Varric all but yells.

A frazzled looking guard pokes his head into the room. “Apologies, Viscount, but my Captain instructed me to pass along an urgent message.” The poor man’s lip twitches as if he bit into a bitter root. “It's quote, ‘Your puppy’s arrived early, go take him on a walk before his pisses on my floor,’ end quote. Ser.”

Varric’s already stepping around the guard and out the door, heart thudding in his chest and a laugh caught in his throat. He controls himself on the stairs down, trying not to make too much of an ass of himself by hurrying like an apprentice still wet behind the ears. Bran be damned, he’ll finish up his list of complaints and nuisances later, although knowing the Seneschal, he’ll probably hide from _this_ guest as long as he can.

He fails at nonchalance, if the amused look on Donnic’s face tells him anything. “The wife’s hiding in her office, but you can’t miss him."

A laugh bubbles out of Varric a touch too hysterical. “You married the only one of us with good sense.”

Sure enough, Varric can already hear laughs and jeers from within the barracks. As he rounds the corner, Varric sees him, one foot propped on a chair and pack slung half over his shoulders, holding court with the guards and— it’s good, it’s so fucking good to see Hawke, flesh and blood and in reach.

He’s in the middle of some story, working the newbies as the older guards try to keep stern. Always has to be the center of attention. 

“Hawke, you dirty son of a bitch!” Varric cuts in, jaw aching from smiling too hard. Varric can see the moment he hears his voice — Hawke turns around so abruptly, he nearly trips off the chair. "You’re not supposed to get here until the weekend. Wardens kicked you out even earlier?"

Varric can’t stop staring. Last time he saw him, they were parting ways with a quick, exhausted side-hug at Adamant. His hair is shorter now, cropped neat and tight around his skull. The skin on the bridge of his nose is peeling from the late summer sun, and from this close he can see the fine line of kohl accentuating Hawke’s stubby eyelashes, the vain bastard. 

“Hardly! I’m a gentleman and a scholar, and I was ever so popular. I lounged on the steps and was fed peeled grapes.” Hawke grins and leans in conspiratorially. “_Three _different Senior Wardens begged me to stay but a day longer.”

Varric clasps Hawke’s hand in a firm grip. “So Carver tried to to kill you?”

“Carver tried to kill me.”

Varric lets go, but doesn’t step back. Maker, it’s just _ good _to see him. But there’s a bit of a wild look in Hawke’s eyes, and more fine lines around them than he remembers.

Aveline throws open her door with a clang. Immediately the guards pretend to be busy.

“Varric?”

“Yes, Captain?” 

“Get out.”

“Yes, Captain,” Varric says, although he can hear Hawke mumble _ Yes, mother _behind him.

“Ugh, I simply can’t take another bite,” Hawke moans, but takes another scoop of spiced bread pudding onto his plate with a wink at the servant. She blushes, curtsies, and leaves Varric’s quarters with a quiet _ snick _of the door behind her.

Varric pushes his own empty plate away, but keeps his wine glass close. “Stop flirting with the poor girl and making her like you better than me. She never curtsies for _ me _ and I run the damn city.”

“I can’t account for Methra’s good taste, dwarf.”

“Har har.” Varric takes another sip and let’s himself watch the truly horrifying display of Hawke’s table manners. He’s bottled up with energy, but Varric knows from experience that the minute the meal ends, he’ll be draped against any flat surface for a quick nap. Varric envies it. Something about falling asleep in open spaces or in front of others makes him uncomfortable to think about. “Five hours, and you’re already on a first name basis with my servants.”

Hawke shrugs. “I’m a people person.”

“Hawke, why are you here?” Varric blurts out. He takes a long drink of his wine, trying to hide the shock of his own question.

Hawke pauses himself, hand freezing in the air before digging back in. “Where else would I be? Hanged Man?”

“Maker, I haven’t been back there in months. No,” Varric says, pushing through, “why are you back here in Kirkwall? Before I got your letter, I thought you were going to stay at least a year and a half longer in Weisshaupt.”

“I thought I’d look handsome in grey, but to be honest I’ve always found myself drawn to jewel tones,” he says through a mouthful of food.

“Hawke.”

“Can’t a man come home?” Hawke finally finishes his plate and reclines in his chair, but he won’t meet Varric’s eyes. “At least, for a time.”

“Where to after, then?” Varric says. A cold ball tightens in the center of his chest, but the words feel loose and slippery as he says them. Well, shit. He’s drunker than he should be.

“Not sure. Thought I’d mull it over after a long nap.” Hawke finally looks at him with a grin, and with a pang Varric notices his eyes are glossy with tears. “I’m actually quite fucking tired.”

Varric hesitantly reaches out to put his hand on top of Hawkes. “Hawke, do you–”

“Later,” he says sharply. He sighs, squeezes Varric’s hand and then makes to stand, gathering his robes. “Please? Maybe tomorrow we could talk.”

Varric pauses, and then nods. “Of course, Champion.”

Instead of going to the door, Hawke spins around and faces Varric. He trails a finger down the ridge of Varric’s nose, fingers slowing over the old break.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. Hawke’s always been tall, but it’s one of the few times that Varric feels impossibly small next to him. With a crooked grin, Hawke gives his nose a tweak and finally leaves the room.

Varric settles into his armchair and takes a bottle of wine from the table with him. Compared to just moments before, he feels as sober and joyless as a Chantry sister.

Several minutes pass before he comes back to himself. “What the _ shit _was that.”

They don’t talk in the morning.

Hawke returns to the Keep after midday with a bruised jaw and claps on the back from the guards. 

“Got nostalgic clearing Darktown of smugglers?” Varric murmurs to him later when they pass in the hall. 

Hawke just laughs, and laughs, and leaves.

Varric scowls at the letter on his desk. It arrived about a day or two after Hawke did, and for the past month it’s been staring back at him, Leliana’s black wax seal glinting in the candlelight.

They’ve settled back into a routine. Varric and Hawke see each other regularly, except on days like this when Hawke’s out in Sundermount somewhere cutting down spiders and dragonlings. And Varric’s here, in his office. The Seneschal stopped hiding, unfortunately, and resumed his task of slowly stripping away Varric’s sanity with a seemingly endless list of grievances. The trade negotiations are simple enough, a city is just a business at the end of the day, but he has a new level of respect for Josephine’s ability to cut through the political bullshit. Ruffles was smarter than he is, choosing to sail out into the sea instead of trying to keep two noble families from pissing in each other’s rosebeds. And he means that literally, the Lachances’ son won’t stop taking his nightly relief in the Stadler’s prize-winning garden, and for some reason, it’s his fucking job to make the drunk bastard stop.

Despite his grumbling, Varric has to admit that he doesn’t… hate his life. It’s just routine. He has his home, his friends, his work. It has to be nearly two decades since he had that level of stability in his life. 

On his desk, there’s even a small earmarked book of Andrastian poetry. Poetry! When’s the last time he’s been able to crack open a book for the sake of reading? And not the pulp he usually writes, but something new and fresh. Certainly not the reports he used to read, full of death and tragedy.

That’s not to say he can relax or shirk his duties. Another war is coming. With a groan, Varric gives the open letter one last sour look before tucking it away in his desk.

“No,” warns Varric.

Hawke continues to stare at him with his big, puppy-mabari eyes.

“No!” Varric says again.

Hawke tilts his head.

With a sigh, Varric folds up his reading glasses. “Okay fine. We can do a moonlight stroll to the docks, you lunatic.”

Hawke breaks into a shit-eating grin. “You’re not going to regret this.”

“Oh, is that right, I’m not going to regret this ‘errand’ of yours?” Varric grumbles as he switches out his smoking jacket for something with sturdier leather. “You going to tell me what it is we’re doing?”

“It's just a milk-run, of sorts. Thought it'd be nice to have a friend at my side and watching my back. Where’s your sense of adventure, dwarf?”

“Buried under crushing paranoia.” Varric retrieves Bianca from the hooks under his desk. 

Hawke blinks. “She was down there the whole time? In your swanky Viscount office, surrounded by dozens of armed guards and the Hero of Kirkwall? Now _ that _ is paranoid.”

“You never know when a raging wave of Qunari is going to knock on your door.”

“Hmm.” Hawke stops him with a once-over look. Before Varric can open his mouth, Hawke tosses a hood at him. “Here, wear this.”

Varric laces it into his jacket, the heavy fabric shrouding his face. “So this is an errand without any guards, I take it.”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p-sound. “I was thinking we could do this a bit off-the-record, just like the good old days.” Hawke sobers briefly. “You don’t have to come. I just thought it’d be fun to get out of the Hall for a change.”

Something about the way Hawke says that nettles under Varric’s skin, but he waves away Hawke’s concern and takes them to slip out the back entrance. 

They quietly joke and bicker halfway through Lowtown before Varric remembers why he hates doing this shit anymore. It cost him no small amount of Sovereigns back in the day to keep the lot of them from getting stabbed in an alley, and he’s too out of practice stepping over puddles of stale piss to keep a watchful eye on the shadows.

Hawke seems happy enough, though. He’s practically skipping, and every time Varric sneaks a glance, he can see a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Coming up against a fork in the road, Hawke starts to peel off in the wrong direction. “This way,” Varric says, placing his hand at the small of Hawke’s back to steer him in correctly.

“Ah. Sorry,” Hawke says. Through the thin fabric of Hawke’s robes, Varric can feel him tense up.

“Is everything alright, Hawke?”

“Yes. It’s just been a while. I keep forgetting how much has changed,” Hawke says, darkly. Varric blinks in surprise at the intensity of his voice. 

“Not _ that _much–”

“Enough of it.” Hawke neatly steps around a drunk in the street, and Varric misses the warmth on his palm as soon as they lose contact. “By the way, thank you for your help in recovering the will to the old Hawke Estate. She’s banged up pretty good, but I think she can be fixed up.”

“Putting together a full staff?” he asks. “I have some names, if you’re interested.”

Hawke hums. “Maybe later, a bit premature now. Maybe a servant or two to get things off the ground, but we’ll see from there.”

Varric bites his tongue. Hawke _ had _ said he didn’t know how long he would be staying in Kirkwall. He desperately wants to ask, but Varric can’t make himself do it. He’d do anything to selfishly keep Hawke in town, if it was still safe enough. But the idea of once again showing Hawke how needy he is… is well, downright unacceptable. 

“You do love a project,” Varric says instead.

“They’re simpler, that’s for sure.” Hawke doesn’t elaborate. They pass down an alley with only a few lamps lit. Hearing Hawke cracking his knuckles in the dark, Varric instinctively puts his hand on Bianca. The man only does that when he’s nervous. “Varric, do you ever feel like you’re constantly keeping things spinning, and if you sit completely still for a second, everything will just crash to the floor?”

“Uh, yeah. Sometimes,” he says at a loss. Not exactly. Varric feels like everything could get ripped away at any moment, regardless of whether he’s sitting or standing. 

They finally pass onto the docks, where even the low orange embers of the lamps feel like bright lights against them. For a moment, Hawke’s face is illuminated, and he’s staring at Varric with an expression he can’t even begin to decipher.

“Blech, the melancholia! Dreadful. Won’t happen again,” Hawke says, thankfully breaking the tension and putting the weirdly charged moment out of its misery. “There’s our man, in any case.”

Sure enough, a shifty looking man steps out from behind a column.

“So what _ are _ we picking up? Nothing too scandalous for a respected, law-abiding Viscount, surely?”

“Poison.”

“Andraste preserve me, I hate you.”

“–right, Varric?” Aveline says.

“Hm? Yes, that’s it,” he guesses. He must guess wrong because her eyes narrow suspiciously and she spares a glance with her husband. He can’t help but feel a bit petulant. “I thought you invited me over for Wicked Grace.”

“You know what, let me get my cards. I think I misplaced them somewhere,” Donnic says, somewhat too loud. He excuses himself from the table with a quick kiss to Aveline’s temple and exits the drawing room.

Varric sighs and stretches back in his chair. “I’m not going to like this conversation, am I.”

He’s not sure what he expected, but Aveline giving his arm a resurraning squeeze wasn’t it. “You’ve been pulling yourself away lately. And as much you make me want to strangle you sometimes, I’m not often worried.” Her grip was still warm on his arm. “But I’m worried, Varric.”

“Me too, just this morning I plucked three grey hairs off my chest. This job will be the death of me.”

She sighs and releases him, displeasure still written on her face. “Varric.”

“Yes, Red?”

“Stop being a shit,” she snaps. Despite himself, Varric grins. After a moment her face cracks into the hint of a smile as well. “One day I really am going to strangle you.”

“I’m too scrappy for you to catch.”

“More like you have no neck for me to grab.” He clutches his heart in mock outrage, but Aveline’s grin slips away into a serious look. “Have you spoken to Hawke recently?”

“Of course.”

“But have you _ really _spoken to him? He’s edgy, jumpy in a way I’ve never seen him before. I don’t think he’s stopped being on the run ever since the Chantry blew, even now that he’s back. Did something happen between the two of you?” She sighs heavily. “I poked too hard and he’s been dodging me since.”

“Maybe _ I _should be dodging you,” he mumbles. He scratches at his stubble. “No, nothing’s happened, and yes, we’ve talked. But not about whatever’s on his mind. It must be something, no one willingly spends over a week on Sundermount.”

“He’s not on the coast anymore.”

He looks at her sharply. “He’s not?”

She gives him a worried frown. “He’s at the Hawke Estate. He arrived back yesterday to continue his renovations and employed my guards do a quick scan of the smuggling tunnels underneath.”

“Oh. I need better spies. I’ll talk to him, Aveline. And Donnic,” Varric calls out, “you can come back on in now.”

Aveline frowns at him again as Donnic shuffles sheepishly back into the drawing room.

“Just found them,” he says with a voice of pure innocence, waving a deck of cards and placing them on the table between the three of them.

Varric sits forward to cut the deck, mind worrying.

After fleecing Donnic out of his coin in a touch of petty revenge for eavesdropping, Varric impulsively stops by the Hawke Estate instead of his own. Sure enough, he can see tell-tale blue glow of veilfire through the window.

Hawke’s maid—Orianna? Orana? was that her name?—opens the door after a couple of knocks and leads him inside.

The space looks good, surprisingly so, although the center of the room contains a heap of debris and the fireplace is uncharacteristically unlit.

“Varric!” Hawke bellows from the second floor. “I was waiting to invite you once everything got cleared.” He skips down the stairs and gestures at the veilfire glowing steadily on the wall. “Neat, right? That Tevinter mage of yours showed me how to do it back at Skyhold. Burns longer than regular fire and keeps my brooding eyebrows safely un-singed.”

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Varric says, laughing weakly. 

“Follow me to the pantry? I have some brandy that needs drinking. Orana, I think we’re good for the night, we’ll chat in the morning about the bannister.” Hawke scratches the back of his neck. He seems off-balance, awkward in the silence. Grudgingly Varric has to agree with Aveline. He keeps _ doing _this. Sometimes they’re fine, and sometimes Hawke goes tense and gets weirder than usual. Varric scrambles to find something to say.

“The bannister?” Varric asks as they make their way across the hall. It must be the choice, because Hawke’s eyes gleam and he jumps straight into it.

“It’s driving me mad. Should we do pine? Oak? Break the bank for a granite finish? Everything in this wing pine, but maybe a contrasting color would be better.” Hawke theatrically gestures with his hands. There’s dirt caked into the cuticles, but his nails are cut neat and short and his fingers look just as square and calloused as ever. Varric’s chest squeezes uncomfortably as he tries to rip his eyes away from staring. 

The first sip of brandy burned, but it doesn’t anymore.

“It really doesn’t anymore,” Varric reiterates to Hawke.

“No it doesn’t. Wait, what are we talking about?” Hawke says.

Varric sits up —shit, when did he lie on the floor? oh his back is going to be furious about this in the morning— and the room spins uncontrollably for a second.

“The brandy. Doesn’t burn.” He finally rests his eyes on Hawke, also lying horizontal on the loveseat in his room. He’s a touch too tall and has to tuck in his toes in order to fit his large frame into the small piece of furniture. The image takes his breath away.

Hawke laughs quietly. “Since when did you become such a lightweight.”

“Hey, at least I’m the one sitting up.”

“Barely,” he says quickly with a faint smile, closing his eyes. Varric take an indulgent moment staring at his face before remembering he's here on a mission.

“You should talk to Aveline, you know. At some point. She’s worried.”

Hawke snorts. “When is she not?” 

Varric grasps at whatever remaining sober straws he has. “I mean it. If something’s been bothering you, she could–”

He laughs uproariously, cutting Varric off. “Maker no, she really, _ really _ would not be any help. Don’t worry about it, Varric.”

Hawke sobers and closes his eyes again, head resting on his arm. Varric can’t help it. Hawke looks so weirdly small in the moment, and he truly _ can’t _ help but mirror him from weeks earlier, reaching out to gently run a fingertip down the bridge of Hawke’s nose.

Hawke startles and grabs Varric’s wrist, eyes flying open. “Please, don’t,” he begs.

Varric fake laughs and stands. “Wow, drunker than I thought. I should go.” 

“No, you don’t need to do that.” Hawke sits up on the loveseat, grabbing at Varric until he’s manhandled into a hug. “You just surprise me.”

He should ask. He should do what Aveline wants and just keep pressing on whatever sore spot Hawke has been nursing. This whole night, Hawke kept treading a line, and then redirecting conversation whenever it became too personal or about his plans for what to do next. But he _ knows _ Hawke, he can tell there’s something left heavy and unsaid in the room. Maybe it has to do with the Wardens, or his brother? Or something worse?

Varric hugs back, silent, and buries his head in the crook of Hawke’s neck. To his surprise, Varric realizes that they haven’t embraced each other once since Hawke’s return to Kirkwall. He gets a weird sense of vertigo, remembering the last time they held onto each other like this, in this room, right after Leandra.

Leaning back to create some space, Varric can’t meet Hawke’s eyes. He just can’t. Instead, his gaze is captured by the slightly thinning hairline along Hawke’s temple. One or two silver hairs catch the candlelight and the fondness that burns in Varric’s chest is nearly unbearable.

Varric should ask. He doesn’t. He kisses him instead.

Head pounding, Varric unhappily wakes up to a slash of sunlight blinding his eyes. Icy dread flows through him as he takes in the mortification of being awake.

If this was one of Varric’s books, his hero would have a moment of confusion before thinking back on the night before, just little flits of memory as he pieces together the tawdry tale.

No such luck. He slept fitfully through the night, so it’s no shock waking up in Hawke’s bed. Varric knows exactly where he is. His mouth tastes rank and his head still spins slightly. He remembers every choice, every decision to kiss harder, to get on the bed. It’s not that Hawke didn’t reciprocate, but Varric knows that Hawke would never make the first move. This… _ situation _ is all Varric’s doing.

He feels like someone’s pried open the carefully nailed chest that’s been sitting at the back of his mind. The one that had him be mindful of every touch, every look, turning every compliment into a joke rather than let it ring true between them. Sure, so he’s always been a bit in l— 

Varric mentally jumps away from that thought, as if his mind almost touched a hot poker. Too intense of an emotional knot to unravel hungover. To rephrase, he's always been a bit too _ overly invested _in Hawke’s life. Too endeared. Too easy for him. But Hawke’s been in a weird space lately, and Varric truthfully can’t imagine a world where they enter into a… into a something. A relationship? No, if they were ever going to do that, it would have happened by now.

Fuck. He’s really not allowing himself to have even a _ moment _of afterglow.

He apparently must have slept, though, because Hawke’s side of the bed is empty. Touching the divot in the bed, he finds it cold. Well. Not the first time that’s happened to Varric, but usually his partner’s don’t sneak out of their _own _house.

“Bastard,” Varric sighs. He’s not sure which one of them he’s referring to.

He has his servant draw him a hot bath and his headache subsides slightly as he can feel it burn off the top layer of his skin. She gives him a worried look, but he tries to hide his irritation as he waves her away. In his mind, Varric imagines he’s as pink and soft and shiny and new as a baby as he tries to scrub every inch of himself with soap, coarse bristles, and vigor.

But when he wipes the condensation off his garish mirror (gift from some Orlesian lord, judging by it’s tacky yet expensive design), he’s forced to look at the face of an exhausted, leathery skinned man. The hairs on his temple dry faster into little flyaway wisps, a look he hates on himself but loved on Hawke since their first year together.

Thankfully Aveline’s not on duty this rotation, or walking past her this morning without submitting to interrogation would have been impossible.

He chugs a glass of yolks Methras helpfully sent up from the kitchen and crawls into bed for an additional, restless hour of shuteye, before throwing himself back into his day.

Hawke shows face after the first evening bell.

He doesn’t nearly look as exhausted as Varric feels, but here’s a glint of manic energy in his eye as Varric ushers him into his office. For a panicked moment, Varric almost says something, but the painful crush of his ego wants to know what Hawke wants first.

“So,” Hawke says with a trace of a laugh. “That was different.”

“I should write to the Seeker, she’d scream if she knew.” So they’re going with the ‘oops! drunken night between friends’ route. Good to know. Heart beating uncomfortably, Varric tries to treat this like a trade negotiation and smooth all his features out into an air of relaxation. That’s the look. Sheepish, a touch of humor, totally indifferent. Just another crazy story for the books. He obviously doesn’t do a good job; Hawke’s gaze is too sharp and Varric feels naked in front of him.

“Next time I could probably make you scream,” Hawke tries to joke. Silence stretches out between them as Varric feels his mask crack. Hawke must notice, because he winces and looks away. “Tough crowd in here.”

“Funny, you should be a writer, too,” Varric says, just to fill the air.

“No, not really.” Hawke fidgets. “I’m sorry. I told myself not to be weird. And sorry, for. Well leaving this morning. I had hoped you’d still be there when I returned. You’re an important friend, Varric.”

“I know, Hawke. I feel the same.” Friends it is. Varric glances around his office for an excuse to cut his stilted, memorized apology short. With a start, he remembers the letter sitting quietly in the drawer and scrambles his way to retrieve it. “Wait, now that you’re here, I have something for you. Leliana sent a missive a while back. The Inquisition downscaled, but they’re still sending agents to Tevinter. Rivaini’s already out there, apparently. She’s having a grand old time seducing Qunari and killing Magisters.”

Hawke takes the letter from Varric’s hands but doesn’t read it. “How long is a while?”

“Truthfully, weeks. It wasn’t right for me to keep it from you. I just thought, if you wanted to–”

“You’re stepping down as Viscount?” Hawke asks, brow furrowed.

“No, no.” Varric waves him off and sits in his desk chair. “I’m too old for that backpacking in the woods shit. Did you know I’m working on installing _ indoor plumbing _ in my quarters? Hawke, you gotta try the prototype in the Emporium. I saw a Tranquil mage be moved to tears. I’ll have my guys talk to your contractors, unless you’ve been the only person clearing out all that debris.”

Varric peters off his nervous babbling. Hawke just stares at him, completely still for the first time since he walked in. It freaks Varric out whenever he does that, just focuses all his intensity on one place. He’s never been the focal point before, and he can’t say he enjoys it.

Varric struggles to maintain eye contact before throwing up his hands and practically jumping out of his chair. “What do you want me to say right now?”

“You want me to go?” Hawke says through gritted teeth. “Seriously Varric? I put my tongue in your mouth and you’re trying to kick me out of your fucking city? To fight crazy _cultists_?”

“Do I– don’t _ you _ want to go?” Varric wants to scream. “Hawke I tried, I fucking _ tried _ to keep you with me, and when that didn’t work, I tried to keep you _ safe_.” Varric rubs at his face in frustration. “But now you’re back again, and you’re not happy Hawke. Every time we talk, you have one eye on the door. For the life of me, Hawke, I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m building a life,” he says weakly.

“Are you?” Varric doesn't mean for it to come out as accusatory as it does. “All you’ve been doing is killing smugglers and shifting dirt around your house.”

"I've been spending time with you!" Hawke barks out a humorless laugh. “I’m here to stay, Varric. I don’t have actually have a timeline.”

“No,” Varric says, shaking his head, “you said this was temporary.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.” Hawke starts furiously pacing the room.

“When? Now? Just to win this argument? You’re gonna get bored, Hawke.” Varric sighs, wind falling out of his sails. “Don’t tell me that’s not true. I like boring. You don’t. If you’re not fighting against something in front of you, you’re leaving to find a fight.”

“I’m getting old too, Varric. I didn’t expect to live this long, or to have a life like this.” Hawke paces the room. “I thought I’d be dead. You’re not remembering, Varric, I was a poor Apostate hiding in the backwoods of Fereldan. My options were death, Tower, or living alone swamp until I went mad. Did you know I’m officially older than my father when he died? Didn’t realize it until earlier this year.”

“Hawke,” Varric says softly.

Hawke continues without pause. “Leaving Fereldan was shit. Leaving Kirkwall was worse shit. I want to put down roots, Varric, I do. But it’s hard when it feels like the moment I relax is the moment it all gets snatched away again. I _told_ you that.”

“Garrett—”

“Hush, dwarf, I’m making a point.” Hawke finally stops trying to pace a rut into the center of the office. “I’m not supposed to have this life, and I definitely wasn’t supposed to survive Maker knows how many civil wars.”

“There’s also an old ass crazy elf trying to destroy the world, don’t forget.”

Hawke chuckles a little hysterically. “Oh I won’t. Unless I stay in Kirkwall with a trophy Viscount on my arm.”

Varric blinks. “What? You want that?”

“Yes, _ obviously _ I want that, I’m just too chickenshit to say it. I’ve been doing a terrible job trying to have this conversation since Skyhold.” Maker's fucking balls _fuck–_ Varric feels like a stunning spell hits his chest, mind skittering over _ since Skyhold _on terrible repeat. His mind drags back into focus to hear Hawke continue, “—and I can’t ruin us, Varric. I just can’t. I don’t think you really get how much I rely on you. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but I didn’t want to risk everything by saying, ‘Oh, my delicious dwarf, I’ve been in love with you for over a decade, our city is on fucking fire and infested by demons, and it’s actually impossible for me to imagine doing this one-sided business for _ another _ decade, so please ser, let me ravish you.’”

“I– what?” Varric feels lost trying to piece it all together. Actually, it’s more like the feeling of going utterly fucking insane. “So, you don’t want to be just friends?”

“No, just me being a scared idiot again.” Hawke rubs the back of his neck in sheepish apology. “Sorry again for being so... off the past few weeks. I didn’t want to make my stay in Kirkwall permanent without talking to you, but I wasn’t ready to actually talk to you yet. Last night was a lot. Great! It was great, don’t get me wrong, but one moment I’m thinking about how it’s too risky and I should just get over you and should never say anything, and the next I’m straddling you. Everyone said you were in a bad mood this morning, and I thought you regretted it and I fucked it up. I think I’ve said enough shit at this point I should just show you my full hand and see what happens.”

“No. No, I don’t regret it.” Eh, maybe a little if only to spare him this excruciating conversation. Varric’s going to have _ words _ with his servants later. It’s like there’s a fog of white noise in his mind, but Varric blindly pushes past it, trying to pick out threads to respond to. “It’s going to be _ boring_, Hawke.”

Varric tries not to look at him, but he can practically feel every step Hawke takes until crowds him against the desk.

“Maybe I want boring.”

Varric snorts.

“Fine, fine, I don’t know about boring,” Hawke says, but still leans closer. “Maybe I don’t know how to be a homebody anymore. But you forget I lived here for a long time, Varric. This was my _ home _ and I want that feeling– that _ life _ back again. I know it’s not going to be like how it used to be, and I can’t promise this thing between us will work. But I can’t imagine being bored by you. Truly, I'm even fascinated by the way you cut your toenails.”

Varric feels his face heat. “Andraste’s tits, not this again.”

“Come on Varric, it’s true! You alternate by foot corresponding to toe placement, rather than starting at one end and working across, you deranged madman.” 

“Rousing speech,” Varric huffs out. “Very romantic.”

“Well, in for a penny, in for a Royal.” Hawke crowds him even further, far enough Varric can barely breathe for fear of touching him. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I cannot unring the bell of putting my hand down your pants, and it’s quite rude of me to drink the milk without buying the druffalo.”

“Going to make an honest man out of me, Champion?” 

Hawke splays his hand across Varric’s chest, one finger looping through the heavy brass ring necklace, and goes terrifyingly serious. “You’re the most honest man I know. I want to give this a shot, if you do.” Hawke leans down to press his forehead against Varric’s. “Please say you do, because you haven’t yet, actually, and you’re a huge prick if you made me say these embarrassing things and you don’t.”

“Yes, I obviously do,” Varric echoes with a grin. He finally lets himself touch back, hands softly resting against Hawke’s waist. Bigger, scarier words that mirror Hawke’s threaten to come out of his throat, but he swallows them down for later.

Hawke lets out a loud, joyful laugh. “The last time I tried to live in Hightown, half the city burned down. Just imagine what’ll happen if we–”

Varric interrupts him with a kiss, as he deserves. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly sure if the title fits the overall themes of the story, BUT I had just gone to a Mika concert when I finished it up so.... it's a "still-there-Monday-morning" kind of love.... there's no dramatic declarations in the rain (maybe just in someone's office)....
> 
> Asymptotical – thank you for a lovely set of prompts! I hope you enjoy :)


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